


A Loveless Romantic

by ABookAndACoffee



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Angst, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22217137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABookAndACoffee/pseuds/ABookAndACoffee
Summary: Rhysand and his neighbor were content in their mutual dislike. When his neighbor moves his fiancée in, Rhys can't ignore the sounds of discord coming from next door.But then there was something else about the woman that intrigued him. A cautious bravery, like a bird one might spook or provoke to defend herself, depending on how she was handled. Her too-thin frame and messy pony tail didn’t fit in with the polished, moneyed inhabitants of the building. He doubted any of them had even seen clothing such as she wore, and she didn’t hold her nose in the air in the way that seemed bred into his acquaintances.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 64
Kudos: 268





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a neighbor AU prompt I saw on tumblr, something like a neighbor AU where person A overhears person B being mistreated/abused next door. I have about five chapters planned with alternating POVs, but no posting schedule. :) 
> 
> Rating may go up depending on how graphic/dark it gets.

Looking in the mirror above his bathroom sink, Rhysand Chevalier felt the curves of his jaw, wondering if he should do as his cousin suggested and get rid of the stubble. After glancing at the watch on his wrist, he decided that he didn’t have enough time that morning, and would face her scorn one more day.

Working with Morrigan was a delight and a trial, but Rhys wouldn’t have it any other way. Walking into his office every morning he was sure to find her perched on the edge of his desk, nose buried in files and ready to tell him exactly what was wrong with his subsidiaries and foreign branches, and what she was going to do to fix all of his problems. She could just fix them without so many details, but Morrigan wanted him to know exactly how hard she was working, proving that she was worth every dollar and every annual raise he gave her. 

After being seated at his desk, coffee hot and ready, Rhys would, at turns, expect to hear from Cassian, Azriel, and Amren, though communication from Az would likely come via messenger. They were his colleagues and his friends, more like family than his actual family had been. And they were the reason that he was able to gather energy to step foot out of his front door every day. They were his bulwark against the storm that was Velaris, and the only group of people he could rely upon.

A rather chilly relationship with his next door neighbor, however, had never seemed capable of remedy. Various overtures had been made, drinks mulled over and evenings spent together musing over what it was like to be captains of industry and lords of all they surveyed. But nothing would bring Rhys into a closer friendship with the person who slept and lived and dreamed on the other side of the wall separating their apartments.

Scrutinizing himself in the mirror, Rhys shrugged. If he was honest, his neighbor was an asshole, anyway. No love lost, there. There would, however, be a much bigger problem if he was late for his meeting with Kallias. Pushing back from the sink, Rhysand ran a towel over his face and threw it on the counter before turning towards his closet. Running a finger from one black suit to another, he pulled one from its hanger and completed his morning ritual of preparing for work.

Stepping out of his door, Rhysand’s thoughts were too full recounting his tasks for the day to remember such mundane items as keys. As the door clicked shut behind him, he let out a quiet curse. He might have had his keys with him, or he might have left them in the ceramic tray just on the other side of the door, inches away yet impossible to reach. 

Wondering how much later he would be to work, Rhysand turned around as he patted his clothing. He worked his way through the series of pockets in his wool coat and reminded himself to thank Mor for the gift she’d given him on Starfall. She’d hinted that it was from some special tailor on the Continent and quite expensive, and Rhysand wondered if they had charged by the pocket. 

Giving up on his coat and reaching to his pants pocket, Rhysand finally felt the outline of his keys and murmured, “there you are.”

Looking down as he was, distracted by the fear that he had just locked himself out of his apartment, he couldn’t see the woman who had just turned a corner. Even if he had known he wasn’t alone, he wasn’t prepared to be run into by a rather large box.

“Oh, shit!” A woman took a step away from him, or rather bounced off of him as they collided. She was rather disheveled, and could barely see over the box she carried.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Rhysand said, pulling his keys from his pocket, then he blinked and refocused his attention on the woman he had accidentally spoken to. Her face was free of makeup and she wore plain clothing made of a simple homespun shirt and pants. Certainly she didn’t look like one of the residents of that exclusive address, and Rhysand wondered how she had found her way to his front door. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said before dropping the box with a grunt. Pushing loose strands of hair from her face, she glanced around the hallway, making note of the numbers on his front door.

“Can I help you?” Rhys slid his keys back into his pocket and leaned against the frame of his front door, cocking his head inquisitively. 

“I’m looking for apartment 1020?” The woman seemed utterly lost, which told Rhysand that she wasn’t from Velaris. She shoved her hands into the back pockets of her pants and rocked back on her heels, telling him that even if she was new to town, she wasn’t so naive as to trust a stranger. 

Rhysand tilted his head the direction of the only other door in the hallway, opposite from his own door and the ornate stairwell that led to his floor. “It’s down there. You can’t miss it.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped and she kneeled down with a sigh, readying herself to pick up the box again. “Thanks.”

She wasn’t dressed in uniform, so she wasn’t delivering anything. His neighbor wasn’t known for bringing women around, not that Rhysand was familiar with his friends or acquaintances. Their hallway tended to remain quiet, and so the sight of someone new was the sort of thing Mor would be hounding him about if she knew. 

But then there was something else about the woman that intrigued him. A cautious bravery, like a bird one might spook or provoke to defend herself, depending on how she was handled. Her too-thin frame and messy pony tail didn’t fit in with the polished, moneyed inhabitants of the building. He doubted any of them had even seen clothing such as she wore, and she didn’t hold her nose in the air in the way that seemed bred into his acquaintances. 

Rhysand looked down at the box she had dropped. A hurried scrawl on the side read “paints”. Like she was moving in. And if she was heading towards that door…

“Would you like some help?” Rhysand kicked himself for offering, but he was already late. Mor would just have to wait to share the office gossip, though she’d probably kick him harder for not learning more about a mysterious stranger moving in next door.

The woman looked up at him, an eyebrow raised. “And ruin your fancy suit?” She placed her palms on her knees and the corner of her mouth quirked up. Rhysand wasn’t sure if he she was making fun of him, but wanted to figure out what else would make her smile.

Rhysand looked down at himself. “Oh, right. It seemed heavy.” He reconsidered his tactic. “Well, at least tell me your name so I know who I have the pleasure of being assaulted by.”

“I’m Feyre Archeron. Call me Feyre.” She stood again and reached a steady hand out to him. “And you are?”

“Rhysand Chevalier.” He reached up to take her hand, noting the large diamond on one finger. 

Feyre’s face darkened and her eyebrows narrowed as they shook hands. “And do you live here?”

“Indeed I do.” He gestured to the door behind him. Rhysand was used to having a certain reputation in the city, but he wasn’t used to being disappointed that it preceded him. Not when it made a lovely woman look at him like that.

Scrambling for another topic, Rhysand asked, “do you paint?”

“What?” Feyre blinked and glanced around. “Oh, yeah. Yes, I do. I am experimenting with different techniques at the moment.” She took a step closer to him. “I haven’t really had the chance before, supplies being limited and expensive and I never really had a teacher. I was using my sisters as models for a while, though Elain can never sit still long enough and Nesta thinks I should be spending my time on something more productive. But anyway they are still back home so I’m mostly working on still-life at the moment, though I might work with landscapes, something with the night sky and the view from the apartment once I’m able to see it and find a good angle.” Her mouth clamped shut, stopping the flow of words that had appeared to be waiting for the opportunity to spill from her.

“Well I don’t know technique myself, but I have quite a collection of art if you’d like to see it sometime. It’s on loan at the museum, ” Rhys explained, “and I can take you after hours.” 

Feyre hesitated and looked down the hallway at the door that was her destination. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“If you’d prefer to go alone I can let the director know,” Rhysand countered.

She frowned, but didn’t reply.

From the marble steps nearby they heard the clicking of heels. Feyre wiped her palms on her pants and pasted a bright smile on her face. The exhaustion slid away from her expression as if she hadn’t worn herself out carrying that box of paints up several flights of stairs. 

Stalking up the steps one at a time was Rhysand’s neighbor. He usually looked disdainful of everything and everyone who had the misfortune of encountering him, but for once, Tamlin’s face lit up when he noticed Feyre in the hallway.

That was, until he saw who she was standing next to. His pace remained the same, steady and measured, and Rhysand’s posture straightened in defense. 

Tamlin nodded his head at Rhys in barely-perceptible greeting before he turned to Feyre and matched her smile. 

“Feyre,” Tamlin said, pulling her into an embrace that coincidentally pulled her a few feet farther away from Rhysand. He held her for a moment until she patted his shoulder. 

“I see you’ve met the neighbors,” Tamlin said. “Well, neighbor. Rhysand here lives alone.” 

Rhysand caught the slight sneer in Tamlin’s voice and had to keep from rolling his eyes. But it cut a bit deeper now, that Tamlin could find someone while he remained alone. 

“Yes, I ran into him, literally, and that’s it. We had only just learned each other’s names when you walked up.” Feyre glanced at Rhysand, waiting for him to corroborate her story.

“Yes,” Rhysand said, “I was just on my way to work when I met your new roommate.”

Tamlin’s nostrils flared. “Fiancée,” he corrected. Keeping an arm around her waist, he toed the box of paint supplies that remained on the floor. “I thought I told you I’d get someone to do that for you.”

“I know,” Feyre said, pulling away from Tamlin. “I wanted to carry these things myself. No one else knows how I want it organized and I needed to do an inventory anyway.” 

Feyre knelt down to close the panels of the box that had opened when it hit the floor, touching it reverently before standing again. “You have your way, Tamlin, and I have mine.” 

“I am the same way about my clothes,” Rhysand said, trying to lighten the mood. “There are shades of black, after all. And one mustn’t mix casual ties in with business ties and formal ties.” He and Feyre exchanged a small laugh.

“Feyre.” Tamlin held a hand out to her, heedless of the box that sat at her feet. He curled his fingers inwards in a beckoning motion. “Come. Lucien will have someone pick that up for you.” His nostrils flared in annoyance and he finally looked towards Rhysand. “Don’t you have some important managing to do,” Tamlin asked, his voice clipped. 

“Indeed. Feyre.” Rhysand held his hand out to her. Hesitating, she glanced at Tamlin before accepting the friendly handshake. “It was lovely meeting you.”

“You as well.”

Tamlin took Feyre’s elbow to lead her away, and Rhysand turned towards the stairwell, torn between the feeling that she needed rescuing and the confusion that came with the impulse.

Mor had likely sent out a search party by that point, and he patted his pocket one last time to stall himself in front of his door as Tamlin and Feyre walked away, heads bowed and voices fierce and hushed. Tamlin’s door closed behind them, and Rhysand wished he could see through the wood, and knowing it would be wiser to leave his neighbors to their own business.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre tries to figure out her new life with Tamlin and walks a fine line as she works to get what she wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kind comments on the first chapter!!!! I read and cherish every single one, I just don't always know what to say in return. I'll try to be better at responding. ❤️

I woke up and blinked into the pitch black of my room. 

No, not my room. Tamlin’s. Well, our room I suppose. Which would explain why it was pitch black and I hadn’t been woken by the sun. There was no telling how much daylight I had wasted lounging there and I sat up, pushing aside blankets. When my feet hit the floor I was surprised by a warm, plush rug, but curled my toes into its depths. 

I was worlds away from where I had grown up, but this new life didn’t quite fit yet. I lived in an unasked-for adventure, ready to play along one minute and wanting to run away the next.

I jumped when a hand grabbed my wrist, and sighed to remember that it was only Tamlin. 

“Feyre, baby, where are you going?” He mumbled in unfinished sleep and shifted deeper into the mountain of blankets even as he pulled me closer.

“Nowhere.” I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. A fluttering in my stomach wouldn’t let me relax back into the comfort of the bed. Already my fingers itched to create, to build, to cook, to do _something_ with my day. 

The problem was that I had nearly unlimited resources now, with which I was expected to do… nothing. 

I stood from the bed, expecting protest from Tamlin but he had already fallen asleep again. Stretching, I padded across the room to the heavy embroidered curtains that hid the city from us. Opening them just a sliver, I had to flinch back from the light of the dawn reflecting off the buildings.

Velaris was beautiful. So beautiful that it hurt my eyes, and I could only take it in in tiny sips. It seemed too much, that I could stand there and appreciate it with no other demands on my time. But at the risk of disturbing Tamlin, I shut them again, opened the bedroom door, and slipped out of it like a wraith. 

A breakfast had already been set out and I sat at the table, my legs folded beneath me, picking at a delicate pastry. Others might have seen the array of food as a blessing, but all I could do was calculate the waste. This would have fed my family and me for a week, but Tamlin would likely take an apple on his way to work, and the rest? 

Alis coughed behind me, trying to alert me to her presence without startling me. 

Everyone here was so considerate. They handled me with kid gloves, as if I hadn’t struggled and scrapped every day of my life to make it as far as I had. Before meeting Tamlin and moving to Velaris, I hadn’t realized how fine the line was between protection and coddling. And how very much I couldn’t stand either. 

“Is there anything I can get you, Miss?”

None of it was her fault. It was no one’s fault but my own that I insisted on being dissatisfied with being given everything, and I cleared my throat, trying to start on the right foot.

“No, Alis. Thank you.” I wiped my fingers on a cloth napkin, dirtying it with butter and flakes of pastry as I shifted in my seat to look at her. “Actually, can you tell me what Tamlin is doing today? I thought I might surprise him with lunch.”

“Oh, he’s likely in a meeting. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s at work. You’d be better off keeping yourself busy here.”

“Doing what, exactly?” The words came out tinged with every ounce of annoyance and frustration I had felt in the past few weeks, and I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I’m sorry, Alis. I just mean, what can I do here? You and the others already take care of the house. You’ve moved me in and everything here is already so… perfect.”

“I’m sure the High Lord would want you to rest and take care of yourself.” Seeing my face, she reconsidered. “There are many parks in the area, which you could explore. There is a library, and the university. The shops are just a block over, and you have lines of credit there. Get yourself something to wear for the dinner tonight.” 

I nodded and pushed my plate away. 

Tonight’s dinner was for donors of a charity that Tamlin had given his stamp of approval, just one more in a long line of events I was supposed to be seen at. But I didn’t know what to wear, or how to act, and even Tamlin threw names around as if I was supposed to familiar with the people attached to them. As if I knew anything beyond who the High Lords were. The Courts were a labyrinth of relationships, from romantic to mortal enemies and everything in between, and I couldn’t keep it all straight. So I didn’t bother. 

Alis placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “There are a few museums in the area. I suspect you know about those already. Tamlin has had the rest of your boxes unpacked, so you might be able to paint.” She patted me as she walked away, her voice trailing off. “Just don’t be late for dinner.”

I had so much time on my hands, time I’d never thought I’d have and so had never planned for. Nesta and Elain and Father were taken care of. Hunger was only a momentary discomfort rather than the conflict around which my day revolved. 

Perhaps I could visit the museums, as Alis had suggested, and gain some inspiration. I had barely wanted to paint since moving. I couldn’t stop thinking about the neighbor - about Rhysand - and the offer he had made me. Tamlin clearly didn’t like Rhysand, though I had no idea of their history. Everyone in Velaris seemed to have known each other since birth, and it made me feel like an interloper.

Another hand rested on my shoulder, and I smiled up at Tamlin. “You’re up.” 

He placed a kiss on my forehead before taking his seat at the head of the table. A pile of paperwork waited for him on a silver tray and he began to rifle through it as I spoke. 

“You had some of your staff put away my art supplies,” I said. “I asked you not to.”

“Yes, I had a back bedroom cleared out for you. It wasn’t being used, so it’s all yours. The light in there should be useful for working.”

I blink in surprise. “Thank you.”

“And that way, your art stuff won’t mess up the rest of the house,” Tamlin said. “What are you doing today,” he asked as he shuffled through stacks of mail and memos. He had barely looked at me since sitting down, and I wondered how much he would hear of my response.

“I thought I’d explore the area a bit. Alis told me there are some nice parks, so I might sketch some ideas down.” Tamlin scoffed at one letter and tossed it aside as I spoke. “And I thought I’d get my nipples pierced.”

Tamlin made a vague noise of approval. “Just don’t be late for dinner though. And dress up. We’ll have important guests,” he reminded me.

I unfolded my legs, threw my napkin on the table, and stood from my chair. “Can I go topless? My nipples might be sensitive. Does it still count as an empire waist if there is no bodice?” I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and kissed his ear. 

Tamlin sat up straighter. “What?” He turned around wrapped one arm around my waist as I watched him put together the sounds I had made into words and phrases and sentences. 

I bit my lip and grinned at him until he laughed and shook his head. “Sorry, Feyre, I promise things will calm down soon. Amarantha made a mess of everything when she left and we’re all still trying to pick up the pieces.”

Amarantha had, by some means I was still unclear on, somehow had her fingers in nearly every pie that mattered in Velaris, and her departure months before meant that everyone was trying to find a new normal. Especially the High Lords. It was what Alis, Lucien, and everyone else reminded me of every time I hinted at being unhappy. 

One couldn’t be too unhappy, if there were others around who experienced it deeper, had suffered more, who held the reins of responsibility more tightly in their hands. I couldn’t complain about a single thing, not really. 

“I know. It’s fine. I’ll see you later.” 

Tamlin stood from and brushed a kiss on my cheek before heading for the front door. It closed behind him with a quiet click, and my thoughts returned to Rhysand. 

I wasn’t used to being home alone; across the Wall, my sisters and I had shared quarters that were much closer than any of us would have preferred, but I found myself missing the noise and bustle. But just down the hall, my neighbor was living a separate life. I wondered if he was lonely, if his friends listened to him, if he had a lover to keep him warm.

Glancing back at the table of food, I asked Alis to box it up, and for the address of the nearest homeless shelter.

*****  
My impromptu errand complete and my dress for the evening purchased, I strolled down the sidewalk and tried to decide where to go next. The midday light had never inspired me much, so I knew that a trip to one of the numerous parks would happen another day. As the bitter chill of winter was making itself felt in my fingers and toes, I decided to duck into the nearest place that would serve me a warm drink. 

In line at the cafe, I waited for my name to be called. The interior was dark and warm, with local artists’ work hung on the walls. I took them in one at a time, noting the names scrawled on the bottom of the cards tacked beneath them. Surely, some sort of artistic community existed in Velaris. A way for people to hone and promote their crafts. Not for the first time that day my thoughts drifted to Rhysand, as it was likely that he knew whom I could contact.

“Fair? Fuh-rie? Fire. Uh, a tall vanilla latte,” the barista called out, finally giving up on pronouncing my name. 

I stepped forward and took the cup, not bothering to correct them.

“Maybe you should go with a pseudonym next time,” a deep voice said in my ear, “something like Frances or Felicity. Perhaps Fanny?”

I turned around, frowning and ready to defend my name. Before I had a chance to lash out, the red-haired man began laughing and held his hands in front of him. “Feyre is a perfectly lovely name though, of course.”

“Lucien, what are you doing here?” I hugged him, minding that my coffee didn’t spill. 

“I’m on my lunch break, thought I’d get out of the office for a while.”

“No working lunch for you?”

Lucien scoffed. “Not all of us are beholden to our capitalist overlords.”

“Right, some of us pretend to be rebels whilst living in the lap of luxury.” I grinned over my cup at him before taking a sip. “I’ll try another name next time though. But it’s not fair that they always get your name right, Lucy.”

“Yes, well,” Lucien said, “they know me around here. Son of a High Lord and all that.” He waved his hand in the air, dismissing his lineage. 

We walked away from the counter and found a table to sit at. The place was small enough that all conversations felt intimate, where even a few customers created enough noise that one had to sit uncomfortably close to hear one another.

“So, Fey-ruh,” Lucien said, drawing out the syllables of my name, “you already know what I’m doing here. What are you about today?”

I frowned slightly and sat back, wrapping my fingers around my cup for warmth. “Exploring.”

Lucien raised an eyebrow, prompting me for more information.

“I took some food to a shelter. I bought a new dress. What else would I do?”

“Mm yes, I am familiar with the life,” Lucien said, nodding with mock wisdom. “A future High Lady is nothing if not concerned with the aesthetic.”

I rolled my eyes. “Not quite. Or at least, not in that way.” I sat up straighter in my seat and leaned in again, conspiratorial. “What do you know about the MoMA? I heard that there are a few collections on loan?”

Lucien’s eyebrows narrowed. “Yes, indeed. Your new neighbor has a collection there, though I suppose that’s what you’re really asking me about.”

I started to protest, but it was pointless. For all that Tamlin refused to see any sign of suffering or unhappiness from me, none of my ruses ever got past Lucien. “Yes.”

“And?” Lucien leaned back in his seat and I braced my elbows on the table. 

“Look, I don’t see what’s wrong with going to see it. But Rhysand offered to let me see it after hours, and…”

Lucien snorted. “Yeah, I’ll bet he offered you the ‘After Hours’ tour.” He made a crude gesture and I smacked his hands, pressing them against the table. 

“It’s not like that,” I protested. “We had barely met, he saw my paints, and I don’t really understand why I have to adopt all of your prejudices.”

“Oh, Feyre,” Lucien responded, and his voice suddenly took on a pitying tone I couldn’t bear. “There are things going on here that you can’t possibly understand. If Tamlin wants you to stay away from Rhysand, it’s for good reason.”

“But I’m suffocating, Lucien.” My voice trembled and I sat back in my seat, struggling to regain my breath. Quieter, I began again. “I have no purpose other than to be ornamental and quiet. I don’t know how I’m supposed to sit here and do nothing with myself.”

“Would you rather struggle? Would you rather move back to those woods and try to make a doe stretch for weeks, to butcher it yourself and hope that Nesta and Elain would be able to stay warm by the firewood you provided them?” Lucien spoke without looking at me, and it felt dishonest. As if he didn’t really believe anything he said. 

There was nothing fair about that life. But there was nothing fulfilling about this one, and I didn’t know how to find myself in a world that had already found a place for me. 

I stood from the table, nearly upsetting the vase of fake flowers that sat atop it. “I need to go.”

“Wait, Feyre, please.”

“No, it’s fine,” I said, brushing away his hand. “I need to get ready for dinner anyway. Looking good doesn’t just happen, you know.” I barked out a too-loud laugh and pulled on my coat. 

*****  
As any proper hostess should, I waited at the front door of Tamlin’s - our - apartment. I wanted to greet the guests, and it just so happened that while doing so I was able to watch Rhysand’s door. 

Tamlin was inside, already laughing with a drink in hand, slipping seamlessly back into his role as the lead member of an elite club. Perhaps it made me unsociable, to stand at the door and welcome guests without really interacting with them past that moment, but I was making a showing. 

I heard footsteps coming up the marble staircase, and jolted forward. I yelled something about being right back, though I doubt Tamlin or anyone else heard me. 

Rhysand turned the corner and raised a hand in greeting, though he kept working to unlock his door. 

“Rhysand, hello,” I called out. I had to gather the fabric of my dress in my hands to keep from tripping over it as I crossed from my door to his. “I had a question for you.”

He stopped and glanced from me to my door, then back. “Of course, Feyre.”

I reached his door and half-grimaced, half-smiled. I didn’t know when I’d get used to wearing such shoes. “You made me an offer, when I moved in a few days ago. I was wondering if that’s still open.”

Rhysand tilted his head. “The museum?” A dark curl fell across his forehead and I remembered the first moment when I saw him. I’d hoped he was a guest, or an employee, not my neighbor. He was dressed the same, all black, impeccable tailoring, but what should have come across as intimidating instead made me warm. Tamlin and Rhysand were both handsome, but I was startled to recognize something else in Rhysand’s eyes, a kindness whose absence in Tamlin I had begun to take for granted. At the sinking feeling in my stomach, I returned to the issue at hand, and focused my eyes on Rhysand’s nose instead.

“Yes,” I nodded. “I thought if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to go.”

“By yourself?”

There was another question within Rhysand’s words. Would I like him to be there? Would I like to see him again? My traitorous mind thought about the lack of guests I’d seen or heard go into his apartment, and I found a strange sense of satisfaction in thinking there was no one warming his bed for him.

“Yes,” I said, nodding firmly. “I’d prefer going alone, so I can take my time, sketch.” Safe. All my life I’d worked to be safe and survive, and staying away from Rhysand was another in a long line of choices made to preserve myself.

“Of course.” Rhysand turned back to his door, unlocked it, and opened it. “I’ll have my assistant contact the director. Just let me know which day you’d like to go.”

“Thank you.” The noise of Tamlin’s party brought me back to myself. “Have a good evening.” I hurried back to my post at Tamlin’s front door, greeting the few guests whose arrival had gone unremarked. I was animated by the idea of a plan, of a task to complete, just for myself.

*****

The dinner was what I expected. Tamlin introduced me to a group of colleagues whose names I promptly forgot, and by the end of the meal my face hurt from smiling so much. Well, smiling _just enough_ so that I looked amused an appropriate amount. It was apparently gauche to be too excited, just as it was to appear bored. Such regulations made me wonder how Tamlin’s set hadn’t managed to morph into the same entity sporting the exact same thoughts and opinions, but coming in a variety of shapes clothed in strikingly similar outfits. 

When the final guest left for the night, I closed the door behind him and then fell against it, sighing. “Alone at last!”

Tamlin tapped his foot on the marble entryway and then said under his breath, “not so loudly.”

“What?” I kicked off the heels that I had been forced to wear around my own house, and reached for a glass of champagne someone had left half drunk. 

“They barely left. They might have heard you, Feyre.”

“Oh. Sorry.” I fell onto the couch in a sprawl. “Alone at last.” I had more energy now than I had all day, now that Tamlin couldn’t claim he was too busy with work to spend time with me. “What shall we do with the rest of our evening?”

Tamlin sat on the couch across from me, arms braced on his thighs. “You can start by telling me why you were asking Lucien about the MoMA.”

“Why wouldn’t I ask about it?” I sat up and drank the dregs of the champagne glass. “I told you I wanted more inspiration for my own work. You must know that I’d visit all the museums any chance I could.” 

“Have you spoken to him?” Tamlin stood and found an open bottle of champagne, began to drink directly from the dark glass. He paced back and forth, watching the floor as he did so.

“That first day,” I said. I didn’t bother pretending I didn’t know who he meant. Though how I was supposed to avoid the man we lived next door to, the man who owned most of Velaris, the man who was the biggest donor and patron to the arts this side of the Wall? What I had said wasn’t exactly the truth even if it wasn’t a lie. It was merely a statement that would hopefully keep Tamlin from becoming angry.

“And can you promise me that you won’t again?”

“But why, Tamlin? You know that I love you,” I pled. “You don’t care that I talk to Lucien. Why should it be different with anyone else?”

“I can bring Lucien to heel,” Tamlin snapped. 

“Fine way to talk about your friend.” I scowled. 

Without warning, Tamlin threw the champagne bottle against the wall and I cringed as it hit, but stayed seated. If I pretended that he wasn’t angry, it might pass. If I tried to placate him, he might forgive me.

“I know that you’ve been under a lot of stress, lately.” I leveled my voice, trying to become a soothing presence. “But you can trust me. You know that.”

Tamlin clenched his hands into fists and turned his back to me.

“Can we go to bed? Please? Let Alis and the others clean this up and it will all be better in the morning. It will all be alright.” I placed a hand on his shoulder, gently, my muscles tensed to move away quickly if I needed to. He was solid, a being made of tension and overflowing with frustration. I held my hand there until I felt his shoulders relax, the slope of them becoming familiar again. 

Tamlin turned and buried his face in my neck. I felt his shoulders heave and tears dampen the fabric of my dress. Leading him to the bedroom, I turned off the lights as we went, leaving the mess in the dark.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Rhys hears a crash in the night, he wonders if it is a nightmare, or a worse reality.

Rhysand was toeing the line between sleep and wake when he heard the crash. The ruckus in the dead hours of the night was a sound he might have expected ages ago, when he was in basic training with Azriel and Cassian. But opening his eyes confirmed that he was indeed in his apartment, in Velaris, in a city that should have been one of the safest in the world. 

He sat up in bed, blinking at the wall that separated his apartment from Tamlin’s. He didn’t make a habit of involving himself in his neighbor’s business, but it wasn’t just Tamlin in there anymore. Feyre had moved in, and if that crash was real and not the remnant of some nightmare…

Rhysand threw his blankets to the side, struggling to untangle himself from them. The clock on his nightstand told him that he still had hours to sleep before work, but he stood anyway. 

Everything was quiet in the early morning hours. The normal buzz of traffic on the street, the disembodied laughter from neighbors above and below, the ring of telephones, all of it was absent as if to make way for his thoughts. His worries, now.

Work was normally enough to keep Rhys’s demons at bay, and so he shuffled quietly to the office he kept at home, as if he would disturb anyone who might still be sleeping. He slumped into the plush leather chair and shuffled papers around, looking for something that would keep his mind off the worry niggling at the back of his mind. That refused to put together what he knew about Tamlin with the fact that he was no longer alone in the apartment next door. 

The sound had just been a remnant from one of his nightmares, he told himself. That’s all it had been.

*****

Hours later Rhysand strode into the building where his main office was located, hands in his pockets, nodding to greet his employees. No one stopped to chat, but at least they didn’t recoil from him. His office was on the top floor, glassed in. From across the building he could see Mor, exactly where he knew she would be, perched on the edge of his desk with a certain irreverence. 

He pushed open the door and waited to see what sort of mood she would be in before speaking.

“Ah, Rhys,” Mor said, flipping through a stacked of stapled papers, “I see you went with black again today.” She looked up and glanced at him from head to toe. “How original.”

“What would you have me wear, Mor? Perhaps a paisley, or I could wear wool with those leather patches on the elbows. Orange? Helion goes in for that bright-as-the-sun look, but I’m not sure I could pull it off.” 

Mor shuddered. “Please, don’t change your brand now. I wouldn’t know what to do with you.” She threw the papers down on his desk and picked up a well-worn magazine before hopping onto her feet and settling into her usual chair opposite his own. 

“So, what’s the news, Mor? Any beheadings or exiles I need to know about?” Rhysand sank into his seat and began glancing over memos.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Mor quipped. “None that would surprise you, at least.” She tilted her head. “Are there any you’d like to order? Cassian was complaining last night that he hasn’t had anyone arrested for ages.”

“Maybe,” Rhys said without looking up. “I’ll let you know later.”

The tick of a clock was the only sound in the room as Rhysand waited for Mor to tell him what had one of her feet bobbing up and down nervously. 

“I heard that Tamlin has a new girlfriend,” Mor said without looking up from her magazine. “Doorman at your building told me she moved in a couple of weeks ago.” She turned a page, though Rhys doubted she’d read a word.

Without checking, Rhysand knew that she was poised to catch any expression that might betray his feelings about the news. Determined to keep her from latching on to any sign that might encourage her gossip, he sighed. Keeping information to one’s self in the same room as Morrigan was a struggle that the most resolute introvert would have difficulties achieving. Perhaps that was why she was so gifted as his corporate liaison. Few deals happened without her knowing months in advance, which proved highly convenient for Rhys.

Rhysand waited a beat, then another. The ticking of his clock and the pregnant silence with which Mor waited were enough to drive him mad.

“Fiancée,” he corrected, finally. “And we’ve met.”

Mor raised a perfectly-practiced eyebrow. “You’ve met her? I’m not sure if I pity or admire a woman who would take him on. Just the fact that someone found Tamlin tolerable enough to live with? I suppose there really is someone for everyone.” She paused. “What’s she like?”

“She’s… artistic.”

Mor closed her magazine and placed it in her lap. “Artistic?”

“Her name is Feyre. I don’t think she’s from Velaris, originally. She seemed out of place, or like she was still trying to find her bearings.” Rhys shrugged. “We barely spoke for five minutes,” he added.

“I’m sure you did,” Mor said. She uncrossed her legs and sat forward in her chair. “You seem distracted.”

“I woke up early.”

“How early?”

Rhys shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

“What woke you up?” Mor asked the question more delicately, giving Rhys the space to answer as he would.

“Thinking about work too much, I suppose.”

“Liar,” Mor scoffed. She sat back in her chair. “You need a hobby, Rhys. Something that you can’t do from home, or from this building. Maybe something outside?”

“Well, if you can suggest something that a single person like myself can do without seeming too pathetic, let me know.” Rhys grinned halfway, but his thoughts went back Tamlin and Feyre.

“I’ll get back to you on that one.” Mor tapped her manicured fingernails on the leg of her tailored pants.

Rhys frowned slightly. “I heard something last night, though.”

“Ew, Rhys, try not to listen to their sex noises. Headphones are your friend.” Mor snickered as she picked up her magazine and resumed flipping through the pages.

“Not that,” Rhys said. “There was some sort of crash. I thought maybe it was a dream.”

“Or a nightmare?”

Rhys waved his hand in what could have been interpreted as dismissal or agreement. “Glass breaking, I thought.” 

“Hm.” Mor went back to reading her magazine, her eyes even less focused on the task than they were before. 

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be by now?”

“I just need to check up on you, cousin.” She stood and walked around the desk, placing her hands on his shoulders to brush a kiss on his cheek. “Who else is going to do it?”

“You are a martyr if ever there was one,” Rhys answered. He reached up and patted her hand in thanks, his eyes still focused on the mounds of paperwork before him.

“Remember what I said, Rhys,” Mor said, her voice trailing as she reached for the door to shut it behind her. “Find a hobby.”

*****

Rhys walked slowly over the marble floors of the Museum of Modern Art, eyes trained on the paintings though his ears were primed to pick up any hint that he wasn’t alone. There was less than an hour until closing, though he wouldn’t be kept out if he wished. They would have put his name on the doors if he’d allowed it. During the hard times, when everything else seemed lost, Rhysand had ensured the survival of this museum and others. Others wanted to champion him for it, when all he wanted was to go about his life, waiting for everything to return to normal. 

Stepping slowly to the side, Rhys moved on to the next painting. He avoided his own family contribution to the museum, as he’d spent enough evenings under the stern and watchful eye of his ancestors immortalized in oil and acrylic. 

Mor’s admonition that he find a hobby had sparked something in him. For once, her gentle teasing had struck a nerve and he intended to act on her suggestion. And he didn’t have to do it alone. Not if he and his new neighbor had as much in common as he suspected.

“Rhysand.” Feyre’s voice reached him from the other end of the gallery, unexpected, but hoped for. 

He turned towards her, hands in his pockets. “Feyre. Imagine meeting you here.”

She flushed slightly. She wrapped her arms tightly around her too-thin frame, as if warming herself. “I’ve decided that this is my favorite time of day to come,” she said, as if they were picking up a conversation that had never ended. “They’ve designed the windows and lighting in here rather cleverly.”

Feyre paused before the same painting that Rhysand looked at. Swirls of black and blue mingled, challenging the viewer’s attempt to find form or unity. Specks of white that may or may not have been intentional gave off the impression of the night sky, albeit a tempestuous one.

Moments passed in silence. Feyre asked nothing of him, expected nothing. And Rhys felt himself thinking back to the first time they met, the way she had snuck down the hall to speak with him the evening before, and her request. 

“Have you had a chance to sketch yet?” he asked. “There is a particularly pleasing picture of my ancestor, Reginald, looking smug. But you can skip all the family portraits in favor of the works my mother purchased, if you’d prefer. Just let the docent know.”

“Not yet. Today I thought I’d see what’s here, how everything is organized. I was thinking about your offer,” Feyre said. “When you asked if I wanted to come alone. And I thought I did, but I had another idea. I didn’t realize how large the collections were, and so I think I’d like someone to show me around. And if the need strikes, I can sketch. So it will need to be someone patient, familiar with the place but willing to let me work.”

“You’d like a guide?” Rhysand’s heart began pounding harder in his chest.

“Yes,” she answered. “But only if you’re the one to tell me about them.” She nodded, reassuring herself.

“I’m sure an art historian would be able to tell you more,” Rhys protested. “It doesn’t have to be a volunteer, perhaps one of the curators.”

“But would they know the family history? What old Reginald was witness to every evening after family dinners?”

“No,” Rhys admitted, “Besides, Reginald died fairly young. Something to do with a duel and someone’s besmirched honor. But I’m not sure that knowing what my family squabbled about while he looked on would help you understand the artist’s intention or technique any better.”

“When I come here, I’m looking for something beyond the technique. The technique, that’s my struggle.” She turned back to the painting. “I want to know that when I have created something, it will endure. I imagine that these works, they have achieved that. I want to know that others will look at what I’ve done and decide that it’s worthy of being a part of their lives. That my art has the capacity to make up the decoration of everyday life. Not to sit static and tired, sterile on a white wall but appreciated. The human aspect. How this art was more than a picture.”

“The human aspect?”

“The human aspect,” Feyre repeated. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ve lost that.” The last words were spoken more to herself than him, so Rhys kept his mouth closed. 

He recalled the sound of a crash in small hours of the morning. He wondered how he would be able to sleep that night, knowing that such a thing had happened. But then maybe Feyre’s presence was stirring up his more imaginative pride, the part of him that was ready to believe the worst of Tamlin. 

“How about this time, next week? We can meet here, and then I’ll show you around. Tell you what I can.”

“Alright.” Feyre nodded once. “Thank you, Rhysand.”

“Call me Rhys.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre leaves the house.

I placed my feet on the ground and stood. The stool hit the back of my legs as I leaned back to take in the canvas I had been working on. The canvas had turned into a riot of color that couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. A night sky, a cresting dawn, or perhaps the mist of dusk. 

With a sigh, I threw down the towel I had been using to dry my brushes. The feel of them in my hand was familiar and comforting, but I couldn’t help thinking that I should have been making better use of them, now that I had the means. I dried them once more as if preparing them to make a broader, bolder swath of color, something more decisive, and instead placed them in their tray. 

My art room had become more practical in the weeks since I had moved in. Tamlin’s assistants had organized my materials according to some unknown formula and I’d spent days rearranging them. 

I had an entire room just for my artistic pursuits. I had a closet where I could spread my arms and spin in circles without touching anything, a living room where I could curl by a fire I didn’t have to tend, and a kitchen that was stocked with food by someone else. And still I sighed and turned away from it. I truly was ungrateful, as Tamlin hinted at each evening when we sat down to dinner. There were so many nuances of this world that I didn’t understand, I had long given up on trying. But even a white canvas was a mystery, now. Where I had once seen infinite possibilities, I now saw a yawning void, threatening to swallow me whole.

I turned away from the canvas and untied my apron. Throwing it to the side, I rested my hands on my hips, taking in deep, even breaths. 

A knock came at the door and I spun around.

“I brought you some tea.” Alis stepped into the room, one foot at a time. Her eyes flicked to the tray she carried, as if to verify that she spoke the truth. Reassuring the nervous creature she now found in her house who was constantly on the verge of being spooked.

“Thank you,” I said, louder than I needed. 

She set the tray on a desk, finding the one corner that was clear of the practice sketches I had thrown everywhere. She lifted one, glancing from it to me and back again. Setting it back on the desk, she said, “You spend a lot of time in here. Would you like me to organize these for you?” 

“No.” I walked across the room in a few strides and shoved the sketches together, making a rough pile. “They are trash.” I held them out to her, refusing to lower my arms until she took them. 

As Alis took my sketches, worked to make a neater pile as she replied. “I wouldn’t call these trash. Not at all, miss. But I’ll do with them what you will,” she said, noting the frown on my face.

“Thank you.” 

I took the delicate tea cup from the tray and drank it in one gulp, grimacing as it burned my throat. I set it down too hard, with a clink, and lifted it again to check for cracks. 

Nothing. There was nothing there. But perhaps I had caused damage that would show itself in time. Perhaps I had created a fissure in some unseeable part of the material, and no one would know until the porcelain suddenly split, spilling and ruining someone’s clothing and the perfect etiquette of an afternoon tea.

“Miss, can I have a word? A warning, if you will.” Alis clasped her hands together and looked at the floor.

“Of course, Alis.” I could feel my cheeks flush, ready with the news of some new pitfall of living in Velaris, with a fiancé whose business left him volatile 

“Our neighbor, Rhysand,” she began. “He’s got a certain reputation.”

“A reputation,” I repeated. Rhysand was certainly an unknown quantity, but one that seemed safe to inquire about. Of everyone I had met in Velaris, he seemed to have the most secrets, but the least will to harm someone else with them. 

“Miss, if you don’t mind me saying, he’s not the sort of man you want to be seen around. Nor spend too much time with.” Alis took a hesitant step towards me, entreating. “He’s taken many lovers, you see, and sometimes they… well they don’t leave his house the same way they entered.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised that someone would speak ill of Rhysand. My neighbor. Not after what Tamlin had done the other night. And yet it still rankled, that my instincts could be so wrong.

“I’m going out,” I said, grabbing my coat from the chair I had thrown it on. Alis sputtered something, some half-formed protest, but I shut the door behind myself, not allowing her the time to complete her sentence. 

I was leaving the house. And I would do so without aim, with no goal other than to please myself. 

*****

At the coffee shop down the street, the barista called my name. 

“Fey-ruh!” 

I gave him a small nod of my head as he beamed. It had only taken a few weeks, but word traveled quickly. Especially after Tamlin had printed the engagement announcement in the paper big enough that it might as well have been front page news. Now, everyone knew who I was.

Warm paper cup in hand, I sat at a table, placed my cup on its wobbly surface, and prepared to lose myself in a book I had found on Tamlin’s shelves. But as soon as I found my place in its pages, someone came to a stop at my table. Looking up, a beautiful blonde woman stood before me. I grabbed my purse, ready to make way for her on instinct. 

“So, you’re Feyre.” The woman tilted her head and looked me up and down with curiosity that I had become accustomed to. But this one, she seemed to be looking for something beyond the label on the inside of my coat, the cut of my imported leather purse, or how recently I’d had a blow out. 

“Yes. Can I help you?” I settled back into my seat, reminding myself that it was a public cafe and that no one could question my right to sit there, leisurely, as if I didn’t have a care in the world.

The woman pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down with a smile. She set her purse on the tabletop, a monstrous affair that looked similar to one that Tamlin had bought me. When I thanked him and set it aside, he’d raved about how the wait list was months long and about someone named Kelly. I had asked what I was supposed to put in it since keys were so small and I couldn’t fit a decent weapon inside, let alone take it out quickly in an emergency. He’d just blinked at me like I’d asked him to explain the provenance of the stars.

Perhaps this woman could make me understand what Tamlin had failed to. Though with the way she had tossed it onto the table, I wondered if she felt as much irreverence towards the thing as I did.

She held her hand out across the table. “My name is Mor. Mor Chevalier.”

I blinked. Rhysand’s wife? 

Mor raised an eyebrow and glanced at her hand until I shook it with my own. “Feyre. Archeron. But I suppose you already know that.” 

“You know my cousin.” Mor slithered out of her coat and slung it over the back of her chair. A barista handed her a small cup and scurried away after she winked at them.

Not his wife, then.

“Yes,” I said, “We’ve met. We’re neighbors.”

“Rhys has told me all sorts of interesting things about you.” 

Mor’s eyes sparkled in amusement as I recounted everything I had ever said to Rhysand, trying to recall the moments where I had been a particular fool. 

“Are you going to ask me what he said?” Mor sipped from her cup and blinked at me over its edge.

“I suppose that’s between the two of you.” I shifted in my seat and thrummed my fingers on the cover of my book. Subtlety had never been my forte, but I was learning.

“I know I’m probably imposing,” Mor said, “But I heard your name and just needed to meet the woman Rhys seems so taken with.”

I sat up straighter. “I think you’re mistaken.”

“Oh, dear. I don’t mean anything untoward, of course. Unless you do.” Mor’s grin faltered when she realized I wasn’t in on the joke. She reached across the table. “Look, Feyre. Rhys doesn’t have many friends. I think that it would do him a lot of good, to have a chat with someone who doesn’t treat him like the only reason they’re there is because they have something to gain. You don’t want anything from my cousin, do you?” She lifted an immaculate eyebrow.

“No,” I answered. After a moment’s reflection, I continued. “Tamlin gives me everything I need.” The words came out flat, scripted. I’d thought I was above using his name like that, here, amongst strangers.

Mor nodded. I feared she understood more than I’d intended her to.

“And I don’t have a lot of friends here,” I confessed. “I’d welcome one or two who know the city better than I do. Velaris is…”

“Beautiful?” Mor supplied.

“A labyrinth,” I responded. “A beautiful, intriguing, labyrinth, if only I could rustle out her secrets.”

_Like whether it is truly home_ , I said silently to myself. 

“Well there is no one better than Rhys,” Mor said. “He built a lot of what’s here, makes sure it flourishes.” She waited for my reaction. But if I’d learned anything from Tamlin, it was how to hold a poker face while waiting to see how someone would react.

“Hm.” Mor pulled away. 

“So, Mor,” I said, diverting the conversation. “Tell me everything you know about who to avoid, and whom one should make friends with in this town.”

With a restrained grin, Mor settled into her seat and began to talk.

*****

Night was falling by the time I reached the MoMA. I pulled my coat tighter around myself as I approached the imposing facade. 

Rhysand - Rhys, he’d told me to call him Rhys - was outside of the museum. He’d said he would show me around, but I hadn’t really thought he’d want to spend his evening that way. Not after the things I’d heard, confusing as they were. Rhys must have decided to be there to let me in on old Uncle Reginald’s secrets, after all. 

Before I reached him, Rhys tilted his head and walked around the side of the building. “Feyre. This way.”

I followed his shadowed back, the evening breeze sending a hint of his cologne to me. Where Tamlin’s was abrasive and unmistakably masculine, the scent coming from Rhys was warmer, more comforting.

Midway through an alley on the side of the building, Rhys turned and held open what looked like a service entrance. “After you.”

I walked into the darkened hallway, waiting just inside the door as Rhys made sure it closed behind us.

“The front door is for tourists,” he said. “Not true connaisseurs. Cette porte n’est pas pour toi.” He winked at me, stuck his hands in his pockets, and walked further into the building. 

Not wanting to get lost, I quickly followed. 

“So,” I asked, only slightly spooked by the dark, “Did you learn French in some boys’ school on the Continent?”

“Ah, no.” Rhys paused before a door, resting his hand on the knob. “That would have been too gauche for my father.” His face darkened, even in the shadows. “No, my dear Feyre, I was not allowed so far from home. Not with so many lordly responsibilities to learn about.”

He pushed the door open and I blinked at the half-light. On the other side of the doorway was a grand room, a gallery really, one I’d only imagined before. As a child I’d allowed myself the fantasy of such things. As I’d grown older I’d never allowed myself such thoughts. 

But before me, at the other end of Rhys’s welcoming hand, was a room of light and shadow, pigments and inks and dyes expertly hung within gilded frames that were themselves works of art. 

I took one step into the room, then another, trying to take in as much as I could. The blocks of deep red and burgundy called to me, while the muddled blues and greens whispered their own siren call. 

I turned back to look at Rhys who still stood in the doorway, watching me.

“I… I don’t know…” I gestured into the room helplessly.

“Take your time.”

I closed my eyes tightly, until I saw stars, and then spun to my right. This is where I would start, then. 

I wasn’t sure how much time passed as I moved from painting to painting. My hands remained clasped behind my back. I wouldn’t dare make my own contribution that night. Perhaps another time I’d pull out my sketchbook to bring a remnant of this riot of color home. But that night, the only sound would be the soft click of my heels on the wood floor. 

After I had made the full circle of the room, I came to a stop before a portrait of a portly, haughty gentleman. If his finely tailored clothes hadn’t already given me a clue to his importance, than the circumference of his waist certainly told me he was well fed.

“So, you’ve found Reginald.” Rhys hadn’t spoken since I entered the room, and hearing him then made me start. 

I laughed quietly. “That’s your dear Reginald?”

“Well,” Rhys said, “I don’t know I’d call him mine. But he certainly was Reginald. And he certainly thought himself dear.”

“Tell me about his exploits.”

Rhys spoke in a low, reverent tone about the uncle who had squandered away a good portion of the family wealth, a clever ruse to cover the fact that he lacked any real power. According to Reginald, being the fifth son of a man who wasn’t even directly in line to inherit really was the worst hand one could have been dealt, and he spent his time ensuring he’d live life to the fullest unencumbered by responsibility. 

I struggled to reconcile what Alis told me with the man who stood at my side. His honest, warm eyes, the mirth in his voice as he recalled his childhood. 

And I took a leap.

“Can you show me more?”

Rhys took in a sharp breath, the amusement gone from his face. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He spun on his heel to lead me to the next room and I caught his elbow. “I don’t mean today. I mean later. Maybe we can make this a weekly thing? I’d like to take my time, get to know every room.”

Rhys hesitated before answering. “Of course. A weekly… thing.”

I held out my hand. “Shake on it.”

Rhys reached his hand up, eyeing mine warily. “Deal.”


	5. Chapter 5

Rhys stood from his bed and stretched, hands high above his head before he realized that something felt off. He was in his bedroom, his curtains were shut against the bright early morning sun, and he was wearing his usual soft pajama bottoms, low-slung on his hips. He blinked at his alarm clock and it glared back, alerting him that it was time for work. But there was still something unusual about the manner in which he had woken.

When he realized that the difference that morning was the broad, unabashed smile on his face, the expression vanished and confusion took over. He couldn’t recall having had a pleasant dream, and he knew his day was already full of meetings with people he’d rather avoid. 

Searching for a reason he should be something resembling happy, Rhys found himself at a loss. He’d resigned himself to a life of forced smiles, and so for one to spontaneously creep up on him in this way set him off balance.

And yet, thinking back on the previous evening caused his lips to curl again. Watching Feyre as she took in the art with the wonder of a child and the discerning eye of an artist had forced him to look at everything around him with a new lens. He didn’t know much about her other than her taste in men was abysmal. He supposed he couldn’t fault her for it, not when his own track record with romantic relationships was nothing to crow about. And despite that, despite the company she kept, Rhys wanted to know more. And she seemed to want to know about him, to ask him questions without guile, to let the disapproving glances when his name was mentioned fall away as she made up her own mind about him. 

When Rhys had gone to the museum before it was for gala evenings, donations and new wings given the names of important families, to hobknob with the other elites who were far more concerned about watching one another than noticing the priceless art displayed there. 

But the evening before, the art was all Feyre’d had eyes for. She’d wanted to know about the work as a way to learn about him, to familiarize herself with the city in a way that sitting in a boardroom or at a crowded restaurant never would. History. She was interested in understanding the history, rather than what she could gain by the present. 

Rhys couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him with an open expression, who didn’t wait for him to subtly point out the corners and hallways and galleries around the building on which his name was etched and framed and celebrated. But if she was living with Tamlin, was indeed in love with such a person… 

Rhys walked into his bathroom, determined to wash away the evening.

He wasn’t a fool. He knew that a relationship with Feyre, innocent as it may have been, would not work. Rhys would never burden a woman with his friendship, not with all the strings that came attached to his name. His friends were his friends simply because they had always been. Rhys didn’t look fondly on his childhood because it had occurred without most of them. That smile threatened to show its face again when he thought of the way that he and Cassian and Azriel had eyed each other at the boarding school. Mor had accepted them wordlessly into the fold. And the last time he’d let someone into his inner circle, a small but fierce woman of uncertain origin, she served the function of scaring off anyone else who might try to get close. 

As he stepped into the shower Rhys reflected on his other, more fleeting relationships. His previous attempts at romance had always been quiet and clandestine, with a tacit understanding that it wouldn’t last. Would he have to do that to Feyre now, for her sake? Rhys knew better than anyone the way that Tamlin would handle the news of their friendship, after everything they had been through. 

Rhys hated the thought that even his friendships needed operate under such conditions. The best thing for both of them would be to go their separate ways. Best that it happen now, when they had barely spoken half a dozen times, though the sting made him feel as if he were losing a more dear acquaintance. 

In the warm humidity of his bathroom, Rhys went through his morning routine of preparing for work. His reflection stared back at him and he wondered what he had looked like, waking up with a smile on his face. Likely he had been ridiculous. It felt like putting on a mask to try now, and so he avoided watching himself, his warm brown skin just a glimpse from the corner of his eye.

Rhysand knew he needed a plan. He needed to figure out how to extricate himself from Feyre’s life while keeping a cordial, neighborly relationship. They would nod at one another in the mornings as they passed in the hallway, commenting on the weather, discussing the traffic. Nothing personal. Nothing real. Rhys wouldn’t think about someone else guiding her through the museum with professional detachment. He wouldn’t wonder how she slept, he would resist the impulse to text her with insider knowledge about the local art scene, he wouldn’t introduce her to the woman who ran an artists collective.

Rhys picked up his phone.

Rhys: _Dinner tonight?_

THE Morrigan 👸 : _You buying?_

Rhys: _Always. Let’s do takeout. My place._

THE Morrigan 👸: 😋 🍣 🍱 

Rhys: _Your request has been noted._

THE Morrigan 👸: _Whats the occasion_

Rhys: _Just need some friendly advice._

THE Morrigan 👸: _Right, I’ll bring Cassian. Better order plenty of food._ 😉 

*********

Mor and Cassian put away a shocking amount of sashimi and sake before Rhys felt comfortable broaching the subject of Feyre with them. He’d managed to put her out of his mind long enough to complete his work for the day, though that was a nice lie that he told himself. He may have gotten his work done, but he didn’t go a minute without Feyre slipping into his thoughts, a smile sliding onto his face, only to be followed by the attendant shame.

“So,” Mor said, tipping back her glass of wine, “I remember you saying that you needed some advice.”

“Yes.” Rhys settled back into his chair. The fireplace roared nearby, his friends were there, they’d had a good meal, music played in the background. By any measurement, he should have been content. “I need someone to show Feyre around the MoMA, but it needs to be someone who knows about the collections, the way you do, Mor. I was going to, but I’ve come to realize it’s not a good idea.”

“Did that realization come in the form of one tall, grumpy, blond neighbor,” Cassian asked. 

“Something like that.”

“Can I say something, Rhys,” Mor asked, though Rhys knew full well that she would say whatever she felt like.

He gestured for her to go ahead.

“You’ve been different, since she moved in.” Mor held a hand up to keep Rhys from interrupting. “I’m pretty sure that you were wearing a dark grey shirt to work today instead of black, and your tie was a shade of blue. It was practically whimsical. You may not know each other very well, but it’s clear that she made an impression on you. Now I know you’re going to say that you don’t need more friends, you have us, and we are fabulous friends, I’ll give you that. But Rhys, you’ve been alone for a long time. You don’t need excuses to cut yourself off from more people. We are your family, but one day Cassian is going to grow up and get married, and I’ll probably fly off on some adventure with a hot blonde, and then who will be here to be your buffer between you and the world?”

Rhys swirled the bottle of sake before pouring a small glass and taking it like a shot. Nothing Mor said was a surprise, but it still stung. That he was so transparent, that he could work so hard at creating a persona that, in one minute, Mor demolished with her truth. He kept his gaze on the tabletop, pretending to measure words when he really had none to respond with.

“I think she’s lonely, too,” Mor added, and then she sat back in her chair, her piece said.

Of all the insights Mor could have provided, none of them stung quite as deeply as that. Rhys picked up his fork and moved rice around on his plate, his mind racing among every interaction he’d witnessed between Feyre and Tamlin. The idea of Feyre’s unhappiness was the strongest argument Mor could have come up with, and Rhys had no idea if it was because he wanted to spite Tamlin, or he cared for Feyre’s well-being.

Mor looked at Cassian. “Is he going to say something?”

Cassian eyed Rhys. “Give him a minute.”

Finally, he looked up. “As much as I appreciate you talking about me like I’m not here, I’ve thought about this. I barely know the woman. We’re neighbors, yeah, but it’s best to just… not give her wrong impression, that we could be friends or something. She’s probably just scared by the years of boredom facing her, being Tamlin’s housewife.”

Mor frowned and crossed her arms. “That’s unkind. And I think you know it’s untrue.”

“It won’t work. I need to find someone else from the museum who can act as her guide.” He’d invited Mor there with the intention of getting her opinion, and the unfortunate thing about Mor’s opinion was that she was usually right. Even if he really, really needed her not to be.

“And this is just because of Tamlin?” Cassian sipped from his bottle, condensation dripping from the dark brown glass. 

“Yes.”

“So?” Mor shrugged. “He’s not her keeper.”

“I know that,” Rhys snapped, “I would never presume such a thing. But I also know that I’d be putting her in a difficult position.”

Mor and Cassian glanced at each other, something secret passing between them. 

Mor cleared her throat. “I think it’s up to her, then. If she wants to be friends with you.” Her voice caught on the word _friends_ and Cassian hid his expression behind his drink as she did so. Their refusal to look at one another again was all the Rhys needed to know.

“So, how much time have the two of you spent talking about this?”

“A few days,” Cassian said frankly. He set his bottle down and leaned forward. “And you should know we agree. I’m curious to see what other wardrobe changes she might inspire in the future.”

Rhys sighed and leaned his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose. From behind his hand, he said, “I suppose I don’t need to ask what you agree on.”

“I think it’s been a while since you met anyone new,” Mor began, “And it’s difficult in a city like this where everyone knows about…” Her voice faltered. “But I get the impression that Feyre can think for herself. She’s not about to let someone bully her into submission. I think you should give her a chance, because she could be really good for you.”

“But I could be really bad for her.” 

A clock ticked, the fireplace crackled, and the three friends refused to look at one another. 

Cassian cleared his throat. “So I got tickets to a football game this weekend, if you want to go Rhys.”

Mor groaned and threw her napkin at Cassian. “Really, sports? That’s the best topic change you could come up with?”

“You weren’t saying anything, I was grasping,” Cassian protested. 

An hour later, the plates and food containers cleared, Mor and Cassian back at their respective homes, Rhys made his way to bed. He flicked the switch to his fireplace, turned off the low acoustic music, and silence crept through his apartment. Clearing his throat, he turned to his bedroom but a faint sound stopped him in his tracks. He’d have thought Tamlin was listening to music, but it was too irregular. Quietly, as if he might disturb someone, Rhys approached the wall that separated their apartments and pressed his palms to the brocade wallpaper, then an ear.

He could make out Tamlin’s voice, though it was too low to discern words. The tone was insistent, coming in desperate, clipped phrases punctuated by tense pauses. Rhys struggled to listen for a response to Tamlin’s words, something that would tell him how Feyre was faring. She was either refusing to speak or doing so so quietly that Rhys couldn’t tell if she was even home.

A door slammed and Rhys started, pushing himself away from the wall. Walking down its length to follow the sound of conversation - or argument? - he pressed his ear to it again. Tamlin’s voice had grown louder, and Rhys heard one protest in a feminine voice that must have been Feyre. She quickly changed her tone, calming so that Rhys couldn’t hear her any longer. When the front door of their apartment slammed shut, Rhys rushed to his own front door in time to watch Tamlin stalking down the stairs, leaving the building, alone. 

Rhys’s blood rushed in anger and his fingers curled into fists. Mor had insisted that Feyre could make her own choices. But, Rhys reasoned, she might not have that option if she didn’t have a soul in the city to call friend.

Rhys opened his door and took one step toward Feyre’s apartment, then another. When he heard her sob once, he lifted his hand to knock. When he heard Feyre crying, his hand froze in the air. Instead, Rhys pressed his palm to the door, watching it, willing Feyre to do the same on her side, to stop her tears. And he knew he had been wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the emojis work, idk. If they don't, just imagine sushi emojis and Mor's contact being the blonde woman with a crown.
> 
> Also I tried to start responding to more comments, getting so many on each chapter is amazinggggg ilysm!!!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre confronts the consequences of her choice to spend time with Rhys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter occurs parallel to the previous chapter, so when Rhys hears something coming from next door, we now know what he heard.
> 
> This chapter is also probably the darkest it will get, with explicit domestic abuse. It's all up from here, y'all.

“Where were you last night?”

Tamlin and I had slept in and then only left the bed when my stomach protested, gurgling with hunger. 

The question coming from anyone else would be innocuous. Innocent. There would be no double entendre, no implied threat if I didn’t come up with the right answer. Perhaps dallying beneath the sheets had been my attempt to close the gap between us, to keep him from asking questions whose answers I knew would displease him.

I kept my eyes trained on my bowl of yogurt and fruit. Casual. 

“I went to the museum.” A little bit of truth, and let Tamlin hang himself with the rest. He would think the worst of me, anyway. I’d resigned myself to that, fight by fight. With each piece of myself that had been chiseled away to accommodate him.

Tamlin cleared his throat. “You weren’t alone.”

“No.” My spoon clinked against the porcelain bowl. “I had a guide.” I took in a breath and looked up at Tamlin. “I was with Rhys.”

“Rhys?” Tamlin sneered.

“Rhysand,” I said, correcting myself. “And I think I’ve found some inspiration there, they have some great exhibits, the way they’ve organized everything by time period instead of geographically gave me some new perspectives. Maybe something I can use to create my next collection.”

“And where do you plan on having this collection displayed?” Tamlin sniffed and turned the page of his newspaper, the crisp edges crinkling. 

“Displayed?” I was baffled. My art had been for myself, sometimes for my family to cheer us in our darker days. I had no intention of sharing it with anyone, or to make a public spectacle of it. Yes, I had dreamt of little else but splashes of color and light the night before, after coming home from the museum. But it was never anything I’d intended to share, and now I didn’t need my art to support myself.

“Isn’t that what those pretending to have artistic ambitions do,” he asked, “Don’t you want to show off your genius to the world?”

I felt as if Tamlin had insulted me and my art while asking a question that, spoken in any other tone, might have held simple inquiry. Now, coming from him, I had no idea what Tamlin was getting at.

“I wasn’t planning on showing it. Just hanging it around the house. Or perhaps just in my art room, if we can’t find the wallspace,” I said. 

“I’m sure Rhys would be more than happy to make space for you. Show you around, guide you around the museum with his hands all over you like the whore he is.”

And there it was. He was mad that I had gone with Rhys, or he was jealous that I was spending time with another man. Perhaps he was mad that I’d found inspiration outside the home, for all I knew.

I looked at Tamlin for clues in his expression where his words and tone gave me none. Living with him was increasingly like tip-toeing around a snake pit, unsure of which words would be harmless and move along, which words would curl around me and envelop me in their warmth, and which would strike if I made the wrong move. But surely he wouldn’t have used a word like that if it were untrue? And perhaps that was why everyone looked at Rhys and whispered when his back was turned. 

“I have no intention of showing, or creating an exhibit,” I replied. “I merely wanted inspiration. And I’ve found it. So I don’t need to go back.” I reached across the table and rested my hand on Tamlin’s arm, willing him to look at me. If only he would look into my eyes, remember that he still loved me, we could have a perfectly lovely day. 

Tamlin shook me off and stood abruptly. “I have some work to do at the office.”

“But it’s the weekend,” I protested. I couldn’t think of another day staring out of these same windows, alone, with the only people I’d met in town practically forbidden fruit. I glanced around the stark walls in a panic, wondering where I could go even as I recoiled from the idea and the thought of Tamlin suspecting me of… well, it didn’t matter what he suspected me of. I would be safer just staying home.

“I’ll be back in time for dinner,” Tamlin answered, taking his coat from the rack by the front door. It closed behind him before I had a chance to respond, and chance to say please don’t go, please take me with you, please don’t leave me behind.

*****

By the time dinner came around, I had the apartment completely ready. Tamlin’s favorite meal was on the table, candles were lit, and I had done my hair and makeup in a similar style to how Mor had had hers done a few days before. I’d even put on one of the dresses that Tamlin bought me, one of the frothy things that my closet was full of before I had even moved in.

I stood waiting at the door, eager to hear the sound of the key in the lock. When he stepped inside, Tamlin looked me up and down and then said my name under his breath. I took Tamlin’s coat from his shoulders when he was free he kissed me hard and deep. 

“How was work, darling?” I smiled up at him as he threaded his fingers through my hair, looking at me as if I were something precious and fragile. Relief swam through me as I knew without a doubt that he was no longer angry with me, that he was in a good mood, and that I could let the weight of the day fall away and be forgotten.

The relief was followed quickly be shame at knowing I should have stood up for myself that morning, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered so much as having a peaceful evening with the man I loved.

“Work was fine,” Tamlin said, dismissing any real discussion. “I see you’ve been busy.”

The living room opened onto the dining room and both were full of fresh flowers, bouquets bursting with life from every corner. 

“From a hothouse,” I said before he could ask. “I had them brought up from a place down the street. I’ve been here, just getting ready for you to be home.”

I took his hand and led him to the dining table, pointing out the dishes and looking up at him for approval of my selections. 

“And to think,” he said, “you always tell me how bored you are at home.”

I tried to stop the frown before it became apparent on my brow, but when Tamlin turned away from me I knew he had seen it. 

“Maybe this isn’t good enough for you, though.”

“No, of course it is. I’m just…” I stopped myself, trying to take another tactic. “Let’s just eat, okay? I just want to sit with my fiancé and have a peaceful evening.” 

As Tamlin sat I bustled around the table, pouring him a glass of wine and making sure he had everything he needed. It was the most useful I’d felt all day, and I was miserable. Pathetic that I’d managed to survive, to keep my family fed and clothed and with a roof over our heads for years, and now I gained satisfaction from serving a grown man food that he could have - no, should have - served himself. 

If this was the highlight of my day, then my day fucking sucked.

We settled in to the food and had pleasant conversation about nothing in particular. There was very little I could say that wouldn’t worry or frustrate him, so Tamlin led the conversation.

But as ubiquitous as he was in this town, the topic of Rhys refused to be left for long in our house. Before long, Tamlin was talking about the other High Lords and their negotiations, trade agreements, and then he was snarling Rhys’s name again.

And when Tamlin paused and gave me a long, inquiring look, I tensed. 

Without a word, he stood from the table and began rummaging through his briefcase, the one that was full of important business that concerned the both of us. Information that concerned my future, but I was never privy to. 

Sitting back down at the table, Tamlin pulled at his tie, loosening it around his neck. 

“Now,” he said, “here’s something rather interesting that came across my desk today.” He held a cream-colored envelope up in the air, its folded side the only one I could see. It had been torn open and then the flap shoved back in a clumsy attempt to close it. He could have been holding anything, but the point was to leave me wondering. 

And I was wondering. Wondering when someone I loved had turned into someone who could be so cruel one minute, yet the next moment claim to love me.

Tamlin made a show of opening the envelope and perusing its contents, as if he hadn’t read it already. When he slid a piece of paper across the table towards me I picked it up, willing my hands not to shake.

My eyes were immediately overwhelmed by the amount of small text and raced across the page looking for what had caused him to share it with me. It had the appearance of a formal document, something related to his business ventures, which puzzled me further. I blinked and focused, looking for the damning information.

Across the top of the paper read: “Proposal for the creation of a grant for emerging artists”. As my eyes scanned the page, I picked up on the words “local”, “underprivileged background”, and other phrases that would have caught my eye if I had been looking for such an opportunity. The grant outlined a yearly fund for artists to travel, attend courses, and improve their practice, all while taking care of rent, food, and other necessities. It was the sort of once-in-a-lifetime chance I would have applied for, but never allowed myself to imagine myself worthy of. And now that I was marrying Tamlin? That sort of travel was out of the question. I could never go anywhere alone for an extended amount of time.

And then at the bottom, the words that made my heart sink. 

“To be supervised and disbursed by the Chevalier Foundation for the Arts.”

“Is there anything you want to tell me about this?” Tamlin was relaxed in his chair, thrumming his fingers on the tabletop. 

“Why did they send this to you?”

Tamlin waived his hand in dismissal. “We receive dozens of these a week. There’s always someone looking to game the system and make a quick buck. This one, however,” he said, leaning forward and crossing his arms on the table, “I believe this one was destined for you. Courtesy of a dear friend? Rhys? Did he happen to mention this when you were having your soirée?”

“I’ve never heard of this before,” I protested, “But yes, it is the sort of thing that interests me, that would support my work. Of course I can’t go, I’d never apply,” I added quickly. “But in another world, it’s something that any artist would strive for.”

Tamlin stood and took his tie off, throwing it over the back of his chair as he began to pace. “I suppose that Rhysand intends to award you this grant, and then supervise your foreign travel, right? Go with you, make sure you’re comfortable, even if you unfortunately have to share the only bed left in the hotel?”

My mouth opened and then closed, unsure of what to say. Trying again, I said, “Why would you think that? Of me, Tamlin? I don’t know why you think so poorly of Rhysand, why everyone does, but surely you trust me?”

“My brother,” Tamlin said, letting the words rest there between us. He never talked about his family. Never let me into that part of his life, though I would be family soon enough.

“What does he have to do with Rhysand,” I asked, tentative. 

“You’ve never met him.”

I waited.

Tamlin sighed, apparently exasperated that I hadn’t understood the subtext. “My brother was friends with Rhysand, ages ago. But when my brother and Rhysand found themselves interested in the same woman, well. Let’s just say that Rhysand was less than a gentleman about the whole thing. Now my brother can’t show his face, and Rhysand is just walking around as if he’s never laid hands on a woman because that’s what the Chevalier name and money can buy you. The illusion of respectability.” Tamlin sneered and went back to his meal, stabbing his plate with the fork like it had personally offended him.

My mind raced, trying to fill in the gaps that Tamlin had left. I’d never seen a ring on Rhys’s finger, so clearly he wasn’t married. He’d never spoken of a woman. Then again, why would he? If it had ended so sordidly as all that, and it wasn’t as if we knew each other well. 

I stood and busied myself with clearing the table of empty serving dishes. “I promise you, I have never seen that before in my life.” As I spoke, Tamlin stood from the table and began to pace around. “He didn’t mention it to me last night.” I cringed at the words that felt like a betrayal. 

With the dishes in a stack and Tamlin still refusing to answer, I approached him cautiously. 

“What do you want me to do?”

Tamlin clenched and unclenched his fists, his eyes pressed shut as he tried to control himself. Finally, he looked over at me, took a step towards me, then another, and I was horrified to find myself shrinking back until I hit a wall. “I’ll be damned,” he said, his face a snarl, “if I let him have his way with you. If I let him touch you.”

He pressed his hands against the wall, pining me between his biceps. He surrounded my senses, the scent of his cologne filling my nose, the heat radiating from his body against my body, the taut muscles of his arms and neck obscuring my vision of anything else in the room.

I raised a hand, tried to press it against his cheek but he shook me off. 

“I will never let him near you again,” he said, his breath hot on my face. “If I have to lock you in this house to make sure.”

I blinked, unsure I’d heard correctly. But even as my mind raced to justify what he’d said - the anger, the hurt, the history with his brother, the fear of losing me - my stomach knew better and sunk. He’d joked before, about keeping me in the house. Back before we had moved to Velaris and I hadn’t seen Tamlin in his element. 

“Tamlin. Back away from me.” If I had space to breathe, to think, then maybe I could get him to calm down and realize that there was nothing going on. That I would stop giving him reasons to get so angry. I could go back and figure out what I had done to bring this on and I would never, ever do it again.

Tamlin straightened and blinked in shock. He turned and grabbed a bottle of wine from the dinner table, swung it by its neck and smashed it into the wall by my head. 

I cowered as the bottle broke into dozens of shards that fell around me, dotting my white dress in splotches of dark red. The subsequent silence roared in my ears. Every nerve in my body was alive, tingling, ready to run. I looked up at Tamlin, my eyes wide so that I could take him in and ask why, how, when would it stop. 

He took a step away from me, then another, nearly stumbling backwards. I tried to move towards him as he grabbed his coat and headed towards the front door, slamming it behind him as he left.

I stumbled forward, careful of the shards of glass that surrounded me. He wasn’t there so I couldn’t make it better. But I could go after him. My body turned towards the front door and grabbed its handle of its own accord, before I could think about what I was doing. Then I looked down at my ruined dress. I took full stock of what had just happened, and realized that I couldn’t rationalize it. I couldn’t come up with any more excuses, or any other ways to make this my fault when it was clearly Tamlin’s.

Instead of turning the door handle and calling out for Tamlin, I sank to the floor, sobs loosing from my chest that I instantly tried to stifle. My palm pressed against the painted surface of our front door, I cried for myself, and every time I had found myself wondering how I had ended up lower than I’d ever sunk before.

I stayed on the floor until my tears had dried up. My skirt was likely ruined, but I couldn’t let Tamlin come home to find such a mess. I had no idea what to do next, but I knew that crying on the floor was not going to solve my problems. 

As I stood, I heard the sound of feet shuffling on the other side of the door. 

Tamlin was home.

I opened the door and stumbled out, only to fall into the arms of Rhysand Chevalier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for still reading!


End file.
